Safe and Sound
by 10 of Spades
Summary: 1 year after Sherlock's suicide John is left in trauma and shock. When he discovers that Sherlock is alive everything changes. With Sherlock helping him recover and the growing feeling that Moriarty may also be alive John must face fears and face the facts and discover how much he is willing to give for a consulting detective and the game.
1. The Man on The Roof

I can't hear anything as I stumble across the street, my head throbbing, and my heartbeat in my ears. A crowd has assembled around him and I can't get though.

"Please. Let me through I'm a doctor." I gasp. It's all that I can say. "I'm a doctor…that's…that's my friend. Please." There is blood under my feet, too much blood. It's his blood. I kneel down to try to grasp his hand. It is deathly pale and falls away from mine. "Sherlock." I whisper, taking his hand again. They turn him over and I have to look away. I can't look at his vacant stare and the dent on one side of his head. My knees are soaked and my hands are slick in blood as they take him away from me.

"No!" I shout. "Please don't! You don't know him. He needs me!" One of the people pulls me away and talks to me in a hushed voice.

"I'm sorry. He's dead." Then they take Sherlock away.

I wake up drenched in sweat and breathing hard. My hands are shaking as I remember that day exactly as it happened. It's been a year since Sherlock died and I'm not any better.

There has been no miracle, no escape, and no solution to anything. Lestrade phones often, trying to keep in touch since I never see him anymore. My therapist sent me back to live in 221B Baker Street 2 weeks ago, in a failed attempt to make me face my fears. It never works. Nothing ever works. The thing that saved me the first time was Sherlock Holmes, and now he's dead.

The clock on the bedside table reads 1:00 am. I know I won't go back to sleep, instead I get up and put on proper clothes. I am going on a walk to the worst place in the world. It happens so often; the police have taken off the surveillance cameras there because they know that I won't jump. There is still ignorant hope inside John Watson.

The roof of Bartholomew's hospital is deserted as usual. No one has ever gone there since the jump besides me. Some people say it gives me closure and no one stops me. The journalists enjoy a good story. "John Watson Grieves Over Friend's Suicide" "Regular Visits to a Suicide Spot" "Closure for the Traumatized Doctor" I know what they like to say about me.

I sit on the edge of the rooftop and dangle my feet over the side. I guess it's dangerous, but I don't really care. I just sit and stare at the sidewalk below. There was so much blood they never really got the stain completely out of the stone. People walk by it every day and don't notice it. I do.

A shifting behind me makes me suddenly alert. I stand up and point the gun I carry towards the direction of the sound. I'm not really supposed to have the gun because I have a wristband that says I'm traumatized but they can't stop me bringing it with me.

"Who's there?" I say, my voice shaking slightly. There is a small shift in the shadows behind the entrance to the roof. "What do you want?" The shadow seems to come closer.

"I don't want anything from you." It answers. "Why are you here?" I narrow my eyes.

"Don't act like you don't know." He says something in reply but I can't hear what it is. "What?"

"I'm so sorry John." I know the voice. I have heard the voice in my dreams so many times. I have re-listened to the messages on my phone at least a million times. But the voice belongs to a dead man.

"You're dead." I hate the way my voice shakes. "I saw you die." My hands tremble.

"Then what are you John? Crazy? Insane? Obsessed?" The voice is hard in the way his used to be when he was interrogating a suspect.

"I'm not crazy!" I shout and then take it back. "I'm not crazy." There is a silence between us. "How did you do it?" The sun starts to come up over the hospital roof and I can see his Sherlock's shape now, at least I think and hope and pray that it's Sherlock.

"I can't talk now. I can meet you later though. I can get into my room at 221B. I can be there by midnight." I am stricken and I start to back away as he walks towards me. "I'm truly sorry John." I keep backing up.

"Why haven't you talked to me before? I obsessed and had nightmares and went to therapists and got harassed by the public and STOOD OVER YOUR GRAVE FOR ONE YEAR!" I am suddenly angry now that I know it's him. I start backing up faster and don't put the gun down. He starts to speed up as well.

"John!" He shouts. "Stop! Don't move!"

"Why-" Then my heel connects with the side of the building and I am falling over the side. I drop the gun and grasp for life, for Sherlock. But this time he doesn't leave me. He dives over the side and grabs me hand as I dangle over the edge. In one yank he pulls me up in his arms. It takes me a minute before I realize he's hugging me.

"My room. 221B. Midnight. Don't tell anyone. " He says. And then he's gone.

The wait throughout the day is unbearable. I pace the flat and mess around with things so much that Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs.

"What's wrong John?" She asks as I type random letters all over the laptop keyboard and slam it shut, only to open it up and slam my fist onto the keyboard.

"Bored." I say before I can think. Mrs. Hudson stares at me as I laugh coldly.

"Are you waiting for someone?" I think about telling her but remember Sherlock's words.

"No. I just feel restless." It was true in a way. "I just have nothing to do." She nods understandingly.

"Why don't you phone Molly or Sarah? They could come over to keep you company." I shake my head.

"Thank you for the idea Mrs. Hudson. I don't want to see anyone." She sits down across from me. She's the last person I want to talk to besides Anderson who is constantly texting me.

"I know you miss him John." She starts. "I still miss him too but…there's a time when you have to pick yourself up and move on. You could go back to work." I sigh and shut off the laptop.

"They won't let me back since I still have this." I point to the band. She starts to talk again but I stop her. "I think I just need to be alone right now Mrs. Hudson." She looks offended but nods and lets me be.

I wait for eternity in Sherlock's room. No one comes to see me and no one interrupts. It's a good break from the constant attention that I have been getting. I wait until 11:30 and that's when I think I fall asleep.

When I wake up my clock says 3:00 am. I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit up. I hear movement in the next room. Good. Sherlock's here.

He walks in wearing clothes from his closet. He looks like he just got out of the shower and is cutting his hair with a pair of craft scissors from Mrs. Hudson knitting basket. I can see that the back is long and unruly where he hasn't yet cut it.

"Sherlock?" I call out, so he knows I'm awake. I turn the lamp on. He winces. I can see that he hasn't been eating well and his face looks strained when he looks at me.

"Turn the light out. We'll be noticed." I snort. For a moment it seems like the past year never happened. Then it comes crashing down.

"Says the man that takes a shower at 3:00 am and is cutting his hair all over the floor." He gives me a rare and strained grin.

"Fine. Keep the stupid light on." I smile a small sad smile. He continues to shear his hair.

"How long are you staying?" I ask slowly. I don't want to hear the answer. He sits down and looks at his feet.

"Someone attacked the homeless network last night." He says in a hushed voice. I look up from my hands.

"Is that where you've been staying?" He nods and I feel a pinch of guilty in the way he looks at me, like the way a little kid looks at a popped balloon or a broken toy.

"The person left a message in one of the men's blood. It said 'Give me Sherlock Holmes and I'll stop.' I left before they could do anything. It was an accident that I found you on the roof of St. Bartholomew's. I expected to find whoever left the message."

"So you have nowhere to go?" I ask, almost hopeful. It won't be easy, but I want him back in my life. He looks up at me, blue eyes twinkling.

"I was hoping I could be a stowaway." He smiles. Something inside me twitches and I see his eyes replaced with the ones that I saw the day I thought he died. Empty, staring, and ice blue. My hand starts to tremble and I shove it in my pocket so he won't see.

"Yes. You can stay. So long as Mrs. Hudson doesn't find out." He cuts of the last tuft of hair from the front and runs his fingers over his head.

"What's wrong with your hand John?" He says. His eyes burn into me with a look of accusation. I swallow hard. I don't want him to know. He doesn't need to know. I don't want to hurt him back.

"This hand?" I ask innocently, showing my right hand. It had stopped trembling after 4 months of therapy. My left hand still shook. Sherlock stands up and sits next to me on the bed.

"You know which hand John." He grabs the wrist of my right hand and pulls it out of my pocket. I try to make it stop shaking but it doesn't work. Sherlock stares at it.

"Look. It's been like that since the war." I try to yank it away but Sherlock's grip is strong. He just…stares.

"No it hasn't. Why are you lying to me?" His voice becomes louder and his enraged expression scares me.

"Sherlock," I try to say something but it won't come out. "It's not your fault." He throws my hand away and I can see him beating himself up in his head. It's painful to see him like this.

"I was trying to save you!" He shouts. I flinch. He sits down in a chair again. "Moriarty-" He whispers.

"Moriarty's dead Sherlock." He runs his hand through his hair again.

"I know."

"Then why are you talking about him?" Moriarty was found dead along with Sherlock. I remember when they asked me to his funeral.

"When I was on the roof he told me that he had gunmen, reading to shoot you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He told me the only thing that would stop them would be if they saw me jump. I told him that I could get him to stop and send the command for them to stop. And he shot himself." My hand is shaking harder now. I can see and feel the memories of the jump, the blood, and the ache.

"Sherlock." My voice shakes. "Please. Stop." He snaps out of it. For a moment I see a man who cares. He holds my shoulders and calms me down. He isn't the Sherlock Holmes I knew. It seems like someone took a sanding tool, and sanded his character, took out all of the sharp edges. It also seemed like someone was constantly flicking him in the back of the head.

"I'm okay now." I say. He lets go but stays where he is.

"When will Mrs. Hudson be up here?"

"Molly usually comes here around 4:30 in the morning." He gives me a weak smile.

"When she comes make sure to lock me in here." I break into a grin.

"Don't make it sound like that." But I know that too many things can sound like so many others.


	2. Texts With Molly

Sherlock takes a computer, a microscope, and a Petri dish of something red and sits behind the chair directly to the left of the window in his room. It seems strange to me. He was usually somewhat open about research and liked to sit near a sunny window with his microscope. I guess I'm not the only one who changed.

"You know I'm locking the door. No ones going to be coming in. You shouldn't be afraid of Molly." He closes his laptop for a second and cocks his head. Then he opens it again.

"It's not Molly I'm afraid of." I stare at him for a minute. He looks up, and then smiles.

"I think you should get outside. I believe Molly should be here in a couple of minutes." I sigh, not wanting to leave. I missed him for one year. I don't want to miss anything else. But I hear footsteps on the stairs and back out, locking the door behind me.

"John?' Molly calls from the dining room, knocking on the frame of the door as she walks in. She smiles when she sees me. I can see she's tired from waking up early. I have asked her if she wanted to come over a later time, but she said that if I could get 3 hours of sleep every night, she could live with 7.

I want to clear something up. Molly isn't my girlfriend, and neither is Sarah. Molly knew Sherlock better than Sarah ever really could. She wanted to come over because she knew how it hurt. She wanted to talk and I wanted to talk. Hence, the early morning meetings started.

"Do you want anything?" I ask her as she takes one of the chairs. She nods as she usually does.

"Tea, if you could." She says in her small voice. I smile weakly, trying to act like I usually do. I want to tell her about Sherlock, but I know I can't entrust his secret to anyone. It will be hard to hide something, but I remember the army and set my face blank.

"Did you sleep alright?" She asks as I start to boil the water and get out the tea bags. I don't feel like using leaves today. I shrug.

"Same as always. About 3 hours." She looks slightly worried and can tell that something is bothering her. "Is something wrong?" She tries to avert her eyes as I sit down and wait for the water to boil.

"Yes." She tries to smile like usual. "John, what were you doing in Sherlock's room?" I freeze. Usually I come from my room or from the couch. I never go in Sherlock's room. It's almost always locked. She would be concerned if I came out of the room. I use the excuse I almost always do for anything out of the ordinary.

"Jane told me to sleep there." I answer quickly. Jane is my therapist. "Sort of a…face your fears thing." When she looks up from her hands I look away so she can't see the lies all over my face.

"I also need to talk to you about something." She looks terrified as she pulls out her phone. "I've…I've been getting texts from someone." I flip open the phone. Her texts make my heart stop.

Blocked: Tell me where he is.

You: Who are you?

Blocked: I need to know where he is?

You: I think you have a wrong number.

Blocked: I don't have the wrong number Molly. Now you will tell me where SH.

You: SH is dead. I don't know what you're talking about.

Blocked: He talked to you before he died. Tell me now.

You have blocked all further messages from being sent to you.

Blocked: Nice try. Tell me where he is or I will make him and his friend burn.

Blocked: Burn

Blocked: Burn to ashes. Bye Molly.

I nearly throw the phone back into her hands. The kettle starts to whistle behind me. I am glad for the distraction as I finish the tea. When I turn back with her cup she's crying.

"I'm sorry John. I should have told you earlier." I pass her the cup and she tries to smile in habit. "He…" Suddenly it makes sense.

"Is it true that he…he talked to you before he died." She nods.

"He came to St. Bart's and he told me…" She tries to compose herself. "He told me he thought he was going to die that night." I stare at her blankly. "I'm sorry. He told me not to tell you."

I don't say anything. He didn't tell me because he didn't want me to stop him. He thought I would try to help him. He was distancing himself from me on purpose. He couldn't tell me until he was about to jump…

"I should go." She says. I look at the clock. It's only 4:50.

"You don't have to go." I say, standing up while she gets her coat.

"I need to go John. I need to think. I'll see you on Wednesday." Then she's gone like so many other things. It seems like things that you like always go away before things you don't.

I sit on the couch, not wanting to go back into Sherlock's room. I don't like people to see me cry.


	3. Blogger and Blocked

Though it hurts I distance myself from Sherlock's room all morning. I am worried of what would happen if I started to talk to him. He might leave, or he might start to talk about that day at the hospital. I don't think I could take it.

I check on my blog for the first time in 2 weeks. It isn't really a blog anymore. I have nothing to post. I don't use it to talk about my feelings or anything else. People leave me messages. Sometimes it's just a couple of words, or a picture. It's seems like everyone there wants to know if I'm alright.

I mess around on the keyboard in the entry section.

Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive.

I delete it all. The laptop beeps as a message comes into the inbox. I discard the entry and click on the notification. I freeze when I see it's from someone that is "blocked."

Blocked: I'm waiting for the moment. When it comes I will burn the heart out of you, you and Sherlock.

I slam the screen shut. I know only one person who has ever said, "Burn the heart out of you" and he committed suicide. I am fiddling with the lock on Sherlock's bedroom when Mrs. Hudson comes in. It's around noon. She smiles at me. Then her eyes find my hands on the knob to Sherlock's door.

"John." She says. I can tell she's already worried. In the year I thought Sherlock was dead I hid everything he owned. I boxed it up and put it his room. I hated his room. I even covered up the yellow smiley-face on the wall with a photo of Big Ben. I shot the radio when it started playing violin music. She knows I hate to go in his room.

"I-" I am cut off by a large crash from inside the room. I hear Sherlock swear. I hope that Mrs. Hudson didn't hear his voice. She stares at me blankly, but with suspicion. "I…put another box in the closet it had…his coats in it. I just realized…that it was unstable. I guess that was it." I am saved. It takes her a moment but she nods.

"I came to tell you that Mr. Lestrade phoned me and said that he was coming over at 5:00. You're a popular man today John Watson." She smiles and leaves. I fight with the lock of the door for a minute and swing the door open.

Sherlock is sitting on the floor in a sea of coats, scarves, Petri dishes, and is inspecting his violin. "What the hell was that?" I ask once the door is shut. He looks up at me.

"You have all my stuff in boxes. In a closet John!" I roll my eyes and sit on the bed. "I opened the closet to change into something clean and it just all fell on me!"

"Mrs. Hudson was talking to me outside the door." I counter. "She heard it! I nearly had a heart attack thinking she heard your voice." I pluck the violin from his hands and set it on the bed. "We are cleaning this up. And you will not play that violin here under any circumstance." He looks up at me with sad eyes.

"Why not? Why is all my stuff in a closet?" He stares at me. "Why does my bedroom look exactly like it did when I left it, besides all my stuff in the closet? Why have you been avoiding this?" I can't take it anymore. I snap.

"You wouldn't understand, now would you? It's called trying to stay away from things that remind you of something sad." When I hear my own voice I don't recognize it. My voice drips with venom. "But god knows what would happen if Sherlock Holmes understood any kind of emotion." My voice starts to rise in volume. "I shot the radio when it played violin music because it reminded me of you. I boxed up all your clothes because that's what they buried you in. I couldn't take it anymore Sherlock! I didn't want to think about you!" I realize I'm standing up and yelling. Sherlock looks hurt. I didn't think he could. I sit down and hold my head in my hands. Guilt floods my heart.

"I'm sorry Sherlock." I whisper. "I just…" He looks away and starts shoving the clothes back into the box. He doesn't look at me.

"I should be sorry John. I just want to think I did was right." He throws the Petri dishes back into the closet as he shuts it. He looks back at me. I can see the glaze over his eyes. It's about as close as Sherlock ever gets to any emotion of sadness. "What did Molly have to say? She left early." He opens his laptop as if nothing ever happened. Like he has a case to solve and nothing else matters, just like old times.

"She has been getting texts from someone, asking were you are." I say, leaving out everything she said about him. He looks up. I can see excitement and fear.

"From who?" He says.

"Blocked." That's all I need to say. "I got one on the blog-that-is-no-longer-really-a-blog." His fingers start to fly across the keyboard. I watch him stare at the screen.

"Two." It takes me a minute to register what he said.

"I'm sorry. What?" He looks up at me.

"You have two messages." I get off the bed and kneel behind him.

Blocked: Fine. Don't answer. I don't need you to tell me. I just wanted to see if you'd answer. I can seeeeeeeeeee you.

I stare at the screen. How could he see us? I checked everything yesterday. I wanted to make sure everything was safe before Sherlock came. No one could be watching us. The message sender couldn't have seen us.

"Moriarty." Sherlock mumbles. "Of course. If I could have faked my death, why couldn't he have?"


	4. The Game is Afoot

Sherlock looks at his sample of paint in his Petri dish for most of the afternoon. I go up to my room and take out a picture that I have hidden in my dresser for the past year. The small picture frame contains a newspaper clip. Sherlock is wearing his famous detective hat and pulling his coat collar up. I stand behind him, smiling and also wearing a hat. I smile as I look at it for the first time in a year.

I am on my blog looking for any further message from whom Sherlock thinks is Moriarty when Lestrade rushes in with Anderson. I immediately shut the computer as they walk in. Anderson is holding a large manila folder. I can tell by the look on Lestrade's face that something is wrong. He takes a chair.

"I'm not going to sugarcoat this or anything. Let's get to the point." He says. "There have been messages on nearly every wall, every website that has ever posted anything about Sherlock, every police's phone. They are sent by some one called-"

"Blocked." I finish. Lestrade looks shocked. "I've been getting the messages too. So has Molly." Anderson raises an eyebrow.

"So they said 'Give me Sherlock Holmes or everyone who knows will burn'?" His smirk makes me tense. I remember how much Sherlock hated him.

"Yes. It told me that it knew that I was ignoring it and that Sherlock was alive." Lestrade looks up.

"Do you think he is alive?" Lestrade shakes his head.

"He would have to really be a genius to have his own dead body smashed on the ground. He's dead John." I look down at my hands. I hope my acting is paying off.

"Anyway," Anderson says, standing up and handing me the manila folder. "Whoever's trying to find him must be really desperate. They have messages in almost every language." I flip through the pictures. Some are graffiti, others taken from websites. All of them say almost exactly the same thing.

"I want you to investigate it John." Lestrade says. I turn to face him. He hasn't ever tried to offer me a case at all until now. I wonder if he trusts me. I wonder if he is using me as a replacement for Sherlock.

"I'll take it." I say. "I'll do it." Anderson raises an eyebrow. Lestrade looks surprised.

"You don't have to John." He looks concerned and it bothers me. He never looks that way unless there is something important going on. I wonder if I'm important.

"I want to. I'll be fine." Lestrade runs his hand through his hair.

"If you say so. Just…don't over do it." He stands up and shakes my hand. "Good luck." Anderson nods. They leave so quickly it takes me a minute to realize that they're really gone. I flip through the pictures another time. I know Sherlock will want in on it. I go back into his room and lock the door.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed looking into the microscope. "It's not spray paint." He says.

"Hmmm?" He looks up and points to the Petri dish.

"This isn't spray paint." He says. "It's paint like you use on your walls. Why wouldn't he use spray paint?" He puts his hands together and rests his chin on them.

"How?" I say, shaking my head. "How on Earth can you know that?" He looks up briefly.

"When you use spray paint you're left with small grains and air bubble. The paint also is not as fine as normal paint. This paint is not only fine, but it has no grains or air bubbles and you can see brush strokes. Whoever put it here purposely wanted to be expensive and/or classy." I hand him the folder. He starts to flip through all the pictures, circling different details in the pictures.

"We're on the case." I say. Sherlock laughs.

"The game is on Moriarty! The game is on!"


	5. Maroon at Saint Bartholomew's

The next month is one of the brightest since Reichenbach Fall, as the journalists called it. Sherlock and I work together on the case like we used to. I am his eyes and ears. I tape everything on my phone when I go outside and give it to him. We figured out that the paint from every sample is the paint you use on you walls and that all the graffiti is all the same color, a dark maroon. I take pictures every time I see the color. It feels so normal except that Sherlock can't leave his room. It's starting to drive him crazy.

I forgot what it was like to live with him. He uses all my things, goes into all my personal things, and even wears my sweaters sometimes. I stopped seeing Jane and started using my blog again, leaving out anything with Sherlock. I can feel that we are close on this. I know that the color means something. I know that Moriarty is doing this on purpose. He never does anything by coincidence. It's almost like he wants to be caught.

I search on hardware store websites for the color while Sherlock takes a look at the photos I took when I went to visit Molly at St. Bartholomew's. He flips through them slowly, giving a moment to every picture. I can't find anything on any website and shut the computer for the day. It's around 8 at night. We usually stay up until 11. I have been sleeping better now, though Sherlock complains that I sleep in too much. Suddenly Sherlock shouts with glee and stands up on the bed.

"Oh!" He yells. "Oh I've been looking it in the face the whole time! What's wrong with me? I've gone soft! My brain!" He holds his head.

"Shhhh!" I shout. "Do you want people to hear you?" Sherlock sits back down.

"It's obvious John!" He exclaims. "Oh yes. Maroon! Of course! I knew it was familiar! What do you think when you think of maroon?" I search my brain for the first thing that I can think off.

"Blood." He shakes his head.

"No. John, think!" I go through everything I can think of that's maroon.

"My Christmas sweater?"

"No."

"The color in the sitting room?"

"Close, it is a paint though."

"Are you trying to prove that you're smarter that me?"

"Partially." He says quickly. "Don't you see?" He gives me the Look.

"You're doing the Look again." I inform him.

"I can't help it. How can you not see it? What is a symbolic place for Moriarty and I?" He says, practically giddy.

"Well…St. Bartholomew's I guess. On the roof." He winces.

"So close John. Not the roof. The roof doesn't have any maroon. The stairwell up to the roof does. Look at these pictures." He points to one of the lab. "See the red stripe my the stairwell door. I remember that stairwell being maroon, this exact shade of maroon!" He throws the photo across the room. "And I have to stay in this goddamn bedroom!" He is trying not to yell.

"Calm down Sherlock." I say. "I can go in the morning!"

"Screw the morning." He says. "Go now." The idea makes me laugh.

"What's my excuse? That Sherlock Holmes told me too? Why would I be leaving the house at 8 pm?" He looks up at me with a confused face.

"You're working on a case, anything's an excuse." So I have no choice but to put on my coat and leave. I don't see Mrs. Hudson at all as I walk out the door into the cold evening air. It's dark and no one is on the street. It makes everything seem more sinister.

I use the visitor pass that Molly gave me to get into the building. I don't turn on any lights but grab my phone and open up my face chat app. Sherlock's face appears on the screen.

"Are you there yet?" He asks immediately.

"I'm going up the stairs Sherlock, but patient." He grabs his head.

"I can't be patient John. Finally something exciting is happening!" He keeps shifting on the bed as he radiates impatient. But he's smiling. I know that if he's happy I should be too. I come to the door to the roof.

"We're here." I say, as I hold the camera out in front of me so Sherlock can see the color of the walls in the light of the screen on my phone. Sherlock stays silent and I can tell that he's checking the color.

"This is it." He whispers. "But why here? What's so good about here? Why is Moriarty playing a game with me? Why does he want you here?" There is a creak behind me, a tiny creak, not a creak that most would notice. I'm not most and my heart stops. Sherlock's eyes widen as he realizes it too. This wasn't a clue. It was a trap. "Get out of there John." He says. "Turn around and run." I bring the phone down to my side and turn to run. I can only yell as the butt of a gun collides with the top of my head and I am knocked senseless.

The last thing I am aware of is a loud laugh, commotion, and Sherlock's words.

"John! No!"


	6. Author's Note

Author's Note:

Yeah, I make author's notes as chapters between changes in points of view. This is probably not going to be my chapter for the day I am just informing you guys that I am now changing the point of view to Sherlock's for about another 5 chapters. I also wanted to thank you guys for your support and for reviewing and alerting/favoriting my work. Yeah, sappy crap. Yada yada. I am going to try to write the next chapter now.


	7. Blame and a Phone Tape

It is all I can do to keep myself from throwing the phone across the room. Instead I shake it and scream John's name. The phone image goes fuzzy and almost goes dark. I can see a pair of shoes, dragging someone away. I know it's John, and I know that he's hurt. In the dark I see a drop of blood on the shoes and it just makes it worse. I can hear words, not spoken directly to anyone, and a laugh, a cold hard laugh. Then someone picks up the phone.

"Oh it looks like John has a little fan." The droning voice can only belong to one person. Moriarty. "I really hope you can find Johnny-Boy Sherlock. I don't think he'll last more than a week. A'revau Sherlock Holmes." Then the phone shuts off. I throw it hard into the wall.

I can't think about anything but what happened. I sent John to go there. I didn't realize that it was a trap. It's all my fault. I need to find John in a week. I need to catch Moriarty without any clues, stuck up in my bedroom in a week. I can only think of one thing to do. Moriarty already knows that I'm alive when I should be dead. It doesn't matter if I blow it off now. It's for John.

I find the phone. I can see cracked screen won't stop me from making one call. I dial in Lestrade's number and listen to it ring. I am trying to stay emotionless but I find it almost too hard. I am usually so good at controlling my emotions and it's strange that I can't. I wonder if this is what he felt like when he thought I was dead, except that he didn't any hope. I wonder why I try to hold on to the guilt of leaving him. And now there's this.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade speaking." I hear his voice at the other end of the line. I take a deep breath.

"Lestrade, I need you to send some officers to St. Bartholomew's. John's been kidnapped. Moriarty's alive. I need you to come here. Do it as soon as possible." I hear confusion on the other end.

"Sherlock?" He asks.

"Yes, please save all your sappy remarks of disbelief for a later time. Did you here what I just said?" I feel a tear run down my cheek and brush it away in anger.

"Yeah…I heard you." I hear him yell to someone. "I'm coming. I'm sending some of my men to the hospital. There'd better be an explanation for this Sherlock or you're going to get yourself arrested again."

"Nice talk Lestrade." I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll look forward to seeing you." He hangs up before I can. I try to tidy up the room before he arrives. It's what John would've done. John. I'm acting like he's already dead. I'm a proper genius. I'll be able to save him. I always solve the case. But a voice in my head says, "Not always."

I hear Mrs. Hudson arrive in the sitting room 5 minutes later. "I don't know why you want to come here Mr. Lestrade. John left about half an hour ago. There's nothing here. But you can stay as long as you don't trash the place before John gets home." I can hear her walk out, but I am still hesitant to open the door.

"I told you it was a bluff." It's Sally. I wince. I know she hates how John works with me. I already know that she thinks I abducted him. "He isn't here." I turn the knob slowly and let the door swing open slowly. Mycroft would tell me that I'm being dramatic. I call it being interesting.

"You were saying Sally?" I say. She looks over at me with wide-eyes. "Don't look at me like that." I snap. "It makes you look even more…vacant." I see the muscles in her jaw clench. I don't know why I like to hurt other people. Maybe it's because I want them to hurt as much as I do.

"Well." She shoots back. "The dead man shows." I shrug and sit down on the couch.

"That's beyond the point. I want us to get to the actual point." Lestrade sits down across from me.

"And what's that?" He asks. "That you're alive? Another Sherlock Holmes miracle?" I glare at him.

"John and I have been working on your case for the past month-" I start, but I'm cut off.

"John was keeping you as a stowaway?" Sally says. "That's both amazingly stupid and kind of cute." I try not to make her comment hurt.

"It isn't cute. We were so close." I clench my fist at the words. "And I couldn't leave the flat so I sent him to investigate it at St. Bart's. I thought that there would be a message for one of us from Moriarty-"

"So he's alive too?" Lestrade looks despaired. "This is wonderful." I can see the frustration in his face.

"Beyond the point." I lash out again. "It wasn't a clue. It was a trap." I can feel everyone in the room looking at me like I was the one who abducted him. "It wasn't me!" I shout. I can feel everyone try to distance their selves from me. So what? I'm used to this. It isn't going to change just because I'm back.

"I have evidence." I say, holding out my phone. I videotape every message. They won't be able to see anything, but they will be able to hear everything. "It's not me. You can watch it. You can blame me all you want but you can't go against the evidence." For a moment I don't want them to be here. I want to disappear away back into my room and spend time with my only friend, who won't be there anymore.


	8. Scramble with Mycroft

I can't take it any more. I have 4 more days to find John and I don't even think he'll last that long. It's all on his blog. Moriarty has been using it to post videos. It has been on the news. Everyone is going crazy that the two masterminds are still alive. No one knows where I'm living, but Moriarty has made it pretty clear that I'm alive as well.

The videos are horrible. He knows I'll have to watch them, to look for clues. I can't pass by the opportunity to see where he's hiding John.

I can tell it's in London. There are signs on the wall that are in Queen's English and nothing else. It's a large gray room with a tiled floor. John is usually in a chair in the videos. Moriarty is the torturer to my surprise. He doesn't usually want to get his hands dirty. I guess he wants this to be more personal.

The first video was just him talking directly to me. He knew exactly what he was doing with the words he uses. The saying about sticks and stones is such a lie. I would take sticks and stones any day instead of this. A phrase he uses sticks in my mind. "I told you your friends would die if you didn't, and I still stand by that. You should have stayed hidden Sherlock Holmes, because now poor little Johnny-Boy I going to pay."

The next 3 videos are the worst 9 minutes of my life. Each of them involves at least 6 different types of torture and they are a summary of that day. There were whips, and screams, and sticks, and a tazer. The worst was when they blindfolded John and made him stand in the middle of a room while Moriarty attacked him. He could defend himself but he had no chance. There is too much gore and I can't finish watching it. I saw the room; I don't need to see anymore.

Lestrade's team found something at St. Bart's. It's a message. It said RRLOSCAPWE. It's the best clue I have to work with, but I have no idea what it means. I think it's an acronym, but I can't be sure.

I sit at my desk and stare at the letters I wrote on a sheet of paper. Other crumpled sheets cover the desk. I try to think of what they can stand for. What would be so important to both Moriarty and I that he would think I would remember it? Am I really so stupid that I don't know? I guess this is it. Sherlock Holmes, all alone, with a stupid acronym. No, it isn't. I'm just being melodramatic. But what I am about to do is worse than giving up to me.

Mycroft enters the flat with a horribly smug look plastered on his face. I don't want to look directly at him. He knows that I'm almost defeated. It makes him smile that I have put myself so low to ask for his help.

I throw the sheet of paper at him as he sits down. I wish I had my violin but I still won't play it. Even now the music had upset John. I won't take it out now just because he's gone.

"Do you know anything that it might stand for?" I ask, once he opens the sheet and stares at the message for a moment. "I think it's an acronym." Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

"It's not an acronym for anything that I know off." He drones. I clench my hand behind my back.

"Then what the hell is it?" I ask. He grins like a shark.

"I'm not surprised that you don't get it. I was always so much better at these kinds of things. You always hated these kinds of puzzles." He stands up and comes behind me, bending down and putting the piece of paper into my hand. "It's not an acronym Sherlock. It's a scrambled word, or words. Now, I have no idea what it is," I glare at him when he says the words. "But I can tell you that you should know what it is if he wrote it on a wall." Then he leaves. I am glad that he doesn't want to get anymore involved. I know he also doesn't want John to get hurt, but he only gives me cases, he never helps solve them.

I start taking the letters and trying to make them into words. BARTHOLOMEW: Not enough letters and not the right ones. CROWN JEWELS: No. I have no J. VERMEER: A shot in the dark. Not even a good one. There are too many letters.

I work on it for 30 minutes. Then it hits me square in the face. I can't help getting excited. It was so obvious! It's a little obscure compared to BARTHOLOMEW or something like that, but it is still obvious. I phone Lestrade. On the sheet are the words CARL POWERS.


	9. Psycho at A Swimming Pool

"Carl Powers?" Lestrade asks. He had smuggled me out of the flat to come talk to him in his office. "How would that be important?" His idiocy irritates me. It seems so obvious to me and it's hard to understand that he doesn't.

"The pool. Moriarty tried to kill John and I at the pool where Carl Powers died. It is perfectly symbolic for him. There is something at the pool, if that isn't where he's keeping John." Lestrade looks blank.

"He wouldn't be holding a hostage at an abandoned pool." He says. It's all I can do not to slap him in the face and tell him to wake up.

"It's unlikely, but there could be a message there." He sighs and looks at me for a long time with a face that says, "Are you sure about this?" I am sure. It could be the key to saving John. Lestrade throws up his hands. "All right then. I can get you in a police car there without getting noticed." It feels like someone took a giant weight off my shoulders. I'm looking for a psycho at a swimming pool. It sounds like a title of an article on John's blog.

Ten minutes later I find myself standing at the entrance for the pool, pushing the door open. They put a gun in my pocket and I am wary of it. I will use it if I have to. Lestrade stands beside me, his gun drawn and ready to fire.

I see it the moment I walk in. On the far wall is a message in red paint. After the police do their search I am free to look at it.

It isn't paint. It's blood. Not dried, but still slick. Whoever wrote it had to leave. There are also large patches of the same blood on the floor, some dry, some wet, suggesting that it's John's blood or another one of Moriarty's prisoners. The blood was meant to be disturbing to me so I can deduce that it's John's. They left the pool about 1 hour ago, only a short amount of time after I cracked the scramble. They're watching me.

"Brilliant!" Says Lestrade. I realize I was talking aloud, like I have since John started solving cases with me. "What about the message?" I haven't even looked at the words. I don't want to yet. There are blood smudges all the way to the locker room. I hold up my finger to signal Lestrade that I need a moment. I can feel everyone in the room deflate.

I immediately know why I went into the locker room. It's the room I saw in the torture videos. Gray tiles and white walls with pool signs line the wall. I can't believe I didn't think of it before. I walk back out into the main pool area.

"They were keeping John in there." I say. "That's the room from the videos-"

"What about the message?" Anderson cuts in. I can't believe Lestrade took him here. I don't want to hear what he has to say so I turn to look at the message. I GAVE YOU MY NUMBER. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT CALL

"He said that when I first met him but-" Then it hits me. "Oh!" I exclaim. "Of course!"

"Or course what?" Anderson whines.

"The first time I met him, I didn't know who he was. He pretended to be gay and slipped his number under a Petri dish. I have it…" I pull out my phone. The number labeled as "Jim" was a preset on the phone. "He wants me to call him." I breathe. With trembling hands, I dial the number to my enemy.


	10. Choosing Poison

My breath becomes slow and quiet as the phone rings over and over. I am starting to get frustrated when his voice comes on.

"Hi, you've reached Jim Moriarty. If you're calling me you're one of two people. If you're Molly press 1. If you're Sherlock Holmes press 2. Thank you." I type in a 2. There is a moment of silence, and then he picks up the phone.

"Sherlock Holmes. Hi!" His voice is almost exactly as it was the first time I saw him as he really was.

"Moriarty." I say in a soft voice, not believing what I'm hearing. "I got your message."

"I bet you did." He taunts. "I'm really amazed it took you so long though. I was hoping for something more…impressive." My jaw clenches at his words. "Oh well. You're here now. I have one last clue." I am suddenly confused.

"Why do you want me to find you?" I say. Moriarty isn't a genius that wants to be appreciated. He's already noticed as a genius. Why would he be leading me to him?

"I have a choice for you. I want to see what you do." He says in his high voice. "I have someone else to give you the clue." I can hear a scuffling on the other end. "Talk!" I hear Moriarty shriek in the back round.

"Hello." The voice on the other end is rough and raspy, but I can recognize it.

"John." I breathe. "Are you okay? Where are you?" I am suddenly hopeful.

"I can't tell you. He has a gun to my head. I can just give you the clue." I wince and cover my mouth to keep from shouting. "The clue is Connie Prince." Then the other end hangs up. I almost throw my phone again, but I am already figuring out the clue. Lestrade starts to speak.

"Sh, don't speak. I don't need you to ask questions. I need you to get the car a block away from where Kenny Prince lives. Drop me off. I'll call you if I need help" Lestrade looks baffled.

"You can't just order us around without reason! I need a legitimate reason and I need proof." I go up to him very close and look down at him.

"The reason is that John and Moriarty are there and I'm the only one that he wants there." Lestrade takes a step back.

It takes them a good 30 minutes to get everything sorted out. The rain of London has changed to slush. Everything is as dank as the weather. I am dropped of exactly where I ask to be. I walk up the front stairs carefully, expecting a sniper to take aim at me, but there's no one.

The moment I step through the door, I am aware of the smell of festering flesh. There's a dead body in this house. I know it's not John's.

As I walk through the parlor, I see the body of Kenny Prince, bloody and disfigured, slumped in the corner. I try to keep from gagging. That could happen to John if I'm not careful. Someone behind me clears their throat.

"I see you got the clue." Moriarty says. "Clever, clever Sherlock." There is a tone of insanity in his voice that isn't usually there.

"Hello." I draw my gun and hold it up. "Are you planning to have anyone take aim at me or can I talk freely?" I try to seem in complete control as I talk, but I know he's the one who's playing with me.

"No one else here." Moriarty makes a frowning face. "Just me and Johnny. I got rid of all the others when I 'died'" He makes air-quotes.

"What am I doing here?" I ask him. He laughs a horrible, cackling laugh. It's a hollow and broken one.

"You're here because I want to have fun. Fun. Fun. Fun." He smiles in a feral way. He's insane. He's truly insane. "I want to see what you'll do when I play your strings like a violin."

"Fire away." I say coldly, hiding any emotion.

"You can shoot me right now." He says, his face suddenly serious. "You can shoot my in the head right now and they'll be no one who'll kill you. I promise." I smile.

"What's the catch?"

"In three weeks you're going to need me." It's my turn to laugh.

"I'm never going to need your help. I wouldn't put myself so low." My voice is dripping with venom. He smiles.

"You will. You're going to hate yourself so much if you shoot me now. Your going to cry by yourself and wish you didn't do it-"

"Don't say that!" I shout. "I won't!" He grins again.

"Time to make your decision." He says. "Sherlock Holmes, pick your poison."


	11. Burning a Heart

I lower my gun and shoot him in the right part of his torso. He falls with a jerk that makes me sick. There is blood all over the floor and I try not to step in it while I stand over him.

"How can you hurt anyone now?" I say. "How?" He laughs with a horrible choking sound.

"I already hurt them. You need me to…cure them." I take a step back.

"Is it John? Is he the one you hurt?" When he smiles, I can see the blood smeared on his teeth.

"Maybe. I could have done it to anyone." He shakes his head. "YOU NEED ME!" He shouts.

"What are you going to do?" I shout back.

"Burn the heart out of you." He gurgles. My bullet finds his head before I even realize I fired. He chokes up blood before Jim Moriarty is finally dead. I put my gun back in my pocket as I carefully tiptoe over his corpse. He has his own gun sitting on the mantel. I take the gun and put it in his hand. I don't need to have to tell Lestrade I killed him. There are things the police don't need to know.

"John!" I call out into the halls, my voice echoing. I wait for a reply. I slowly pivot around in a circle, hoping for the best. I hear footsteps behind me and swing the gun out of my pocket and aim it at the figure that's behind me. The gun clatters to the floor. "John." I say blankly.

"No shit Sherlock." He says, trying to joke but failing. His appearance gives it all away. His face is gaunt and haggard. It is covered with bruises and he has two black eyes. There is dried blood everywhere on him. I notice his limp and he holds onto the wall for support. He is wearing a white shirt that has many red stains. His arms are covered in burns. It takes me a minute to register it and I run over to him and grab his shoulder.

"Can you walk?" I say. "I'm calling Lestrade. He'll be here. Sit down for god's sake!" Everything comes out as a splutter.

"I'm a soldier Sherlock. I'll be fine." His breath is strained. "I'll…be..fi-" He passes out. I catch him and grab his back to get him out of the house. With my other hand I call Lestrade.

"I have John. Moriarty shot himself. Get over here. We need an ambulance." I hang up.

As I drag John to the front door I notice the gashes all over his back. The ripped flesh is pale and the entire back of his shirt is wet with blood. My hand comes up slick with it. I grip the wall to steady myself as I lurch forward. I shake my head to clear it. I can barely get outside and lay John on one of the chairs as Lestrade runs from the car. Everything goes fuzzy and all I can see is red, then there's nothing.


	12. Author's Note 2

Author's Note 2:

Yeah, this is another author's note because I'm done with Sherlock's POV for about another 5 chapters, so I'm just going to use this to get across a few points.

Thank you s- Thank you for adding me to your story-alert subscription, or favoriting my work. You have no idea how much it means to a first-time fan fiction author!

My Ships: Yes, I ship Johnlock. I love Johnlock. It's awesome. BUT, if you're looking for a story all about Johnlock, then this isn't for you. I'm not going to really make it obvious or straightforward, but I do make references to it in my story if you want a really good fluffy Johnlock fanfic, then read The Blog of Eugenia Watson on Archive of Our Own.

Fandoms I am In: Beautiful Creatures, Hunger Games, Shugo Chara, Fruits Basket, Divergent, Hetalia, Sherlock (No shit Sherlock), and Doctor Who. Those are the main ones. If you want to ask me about a particular fandom then send me a PM.

Thanks y'all!

-LEbouk out!


	13. Patient in a Warzone

I wake up to white. Everything is white. It's blinding to my eyes, which are so used to dark. Light seems horrible and strange. Then there is black. Something black stands above me. I can barely feel something holding my hand. The dark figure just stands and stares. I can hear him speaking but don't understand it, like it's another language. There is one word that seems stressed though my mind isn't able to focus on it.

"John."

When I wake up everything hurts. There isn't one inch of my body that doesn't ache. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton and my vision is blurred towards the sides. I realize that the white room is a hospital.

Someone is holding my hand I instinctively yank it away. I hear someone get up from a chair. I try to sit up to see who it is. I see a blur of black before a piercing pain makes me gasp and lower myself back onto the pillow.

"He's awake." Says a voice I recognize. "He'll be okay."

"Molly." I say and hate how strange my voice sounds. The word isn't slurred, but seems like I didn't get a hold of it before I said it.

"You're okay John." She says, and now I feel the bed raise itself and I can see her. "You were on a lot of anesthetic. We were worried that you wouldn't wake up."

"What happened?" I ask. It seems like a stupid question. She takes my hand back and I pull it away again. Holding hands was never something I liked.

"Well…they got you out of the house. You were in bad shape. You got 180 stitches on your back. You had a concussion and your leg had several gashes in it. You've been asleep for 3 days. Sherlock's taking you back home at the end of the week. He had to sign all sorts of papers. I'll be living with you for a while until everything's… better." She talks to me like I'm a child. I turn my head away from her to look away.

"Is Sherlock here?" I can feel her wince behind me. She knew the question was coming.

"Yes. He's here." I hear her get out of her chair. There is a soft swishing and I know Sherlock is sitting down. I turn my head back towards him, but don't look him directly in the eye. My eyes can't really focus well.

"I'm glad you're okay." He says. His voice sounds rough, like it was run over with sandpaper. "You're safe now." I can't help but laugh scornfully. Maybe it's because everything hurts, or because of the anesthetic, but I am hurting everyone dear to me.

"Safe? Could be dangerous."

I have to use the cane again. I can barely but any weight on it, but the cane is better than crutches. But it isn't just my leg. My other foot and calf have been going numb lately. I try to lean put less weight on it when it does. It just sort of goes limp. I don't tell anyone. The last thing I need is more care.

I have moved back into 221B. Sherlock seems better and I don't talk back to him anymore. He sleeps in my room now, to save me from the stairs. I move into his room. Molly sleeps on the couch. She refuses to sleep in my room, though Sherlock offers every day. She doesn't want to be too far from me. Everything seems delicate and clingy. I wish I had the old life of mystery and danger back. I hate being a patient.

I get up from my bed and grab my cane to go into the living room. Molly and Sherlock are playing checkers. I always thought of Sherlock as more of a chess person, but apparently checkers is his thing.

"Hello John." Sherlock says, not looking up from the board.

"Hello." I answer. Slow. Slow. Slow. I can't wait for something to happen. And then it does, in the worst way possible.

My phone beeps. I have a text. I pull my phone out of my pocket. The number reads: Blocked.

"Sherlock." I say. He looks up. "It's blocked." I see his face go blank, but I can see his eyes flash in worry. He gets up and comes behind me to see the phone.

Blocked: Day 1. Day 1 John. It'll only get worse. I hope you like his decision. It'll just get worse. This is the beginning. You know what I'm talking about.

This was an automated message preset. Do not reply

Sherlock inhales quickly. "Day 1. Day 1 of what?" I look up at him.

"Decision. What decision? He's talking about you isn't he?" I can see fear in his eyes

"What are you talking about? He wants to set us against each other. It says you know what he's talks about." I can see his façade of composure start to tear away. My eyes flick to my good leg, the one that has been going numb. He's talking about it.

"You looked at your good leg." Sherlock whispers. "Why?" I am about to answer when there is a horrible flash of blinding pain running up my leg to my knee, and then there is nothing. No pain, no feeling, nothing. My knee gives way completely, and I'm on the floor.


	14. The Pale Army

I panic in the brief second that my knee gives way. My cane clatters to the floor next to me. Sherlock grabs my arm in the last second, saving my head from hitting the floor. Molly squeaks.

"How…how…did…what?" She is covering her mouth with her hands in a flustered manner. Feeling has returned to my knee. It throbs, but throbs in a detached way, like a drummer that can't keep time. Sherlock grabs me hard be the shoulders and forces me to look up at him.

"Did you know that was going to happen?" His voice is low but sinister. I instinctively try to brush his hands off but they stay planted where they are.

"No." I answer. He doesn't let go.

"Describe to me exactly what happened." I hear Molly try to say something but think better of it.

"I lost all feeling in my knee and it sort of just…gave way." I can almost see Sherlock processing information under his blue eyes.

"Has the happened before?" He looks at me accusingly. I look briefly away from him. The truth can and always hurts.

"Yes." He pulls away and looks hurt. "Not in my knee!" I add quickly, trying to make it seem like I wasn't hiding things. "It was in my foot."

"John, you're supposed to tell us!" Molly cuts in. "We told you to tell us if anything out of the ordinary." I turn on her.

"I was on more painkillers and anesthetics then I could count." I snap. "No one would tell me what they were because god knows if a doctor found out what they were giving him then he would work himself up. I didn't know the side-effects." She takes a step back. When I turn away, Sherlock is pacing.

"The thing is that Moriarty's dead. He would have no way of sending any message. _But_ it says that it's an automated message on preset, therefore his phone was meant to send it even if he couldn't. He knew this would happen and he already had messages ready to automatically send themselves on whatever day he preset them too. He knew that John's knee would start to give out on this day. It's only going to get worse. That's what he said. So anyone could figure that John has some sort of poison in him and Moriarty knew the stages of the poison." His face lifts as he comes to a conclusion but then falls when he realizes what he has said.

"I need to take him to the hospital." Molly says. "I could run tests and figure out what it is so we can administer the antidote." I feel like they've forgotten about me.

"I'm still in the room!" I say. Molly turns.

"We should go now. I could take a blood sample and Sherlock could help me find the toxin." Her words make me wince. It is no secret that she loves Sherlock. I find it so irritating and I don't say so to be rude. I don't want her and Sherlock to be together. It would make me feel awkward because…never mind.

"Fine." I say. "But this time I get to know exactly what kind of medicine you put my on if any at all." She nods and we slowly leave the building out the back, careful of reporters.

I fall twice more on the way to the hospital. Sherlock looks guilty and broken. It hurts to see him so separate and full of the emotions that he usually hides unless things are dire.

Once in Molly's office she takes a blood sample. When she gets under the microscope it takes her a moment to find what she is looking for. She then isolates it as best she can and takes another look at it with one of the nerve tissue samples she has. She backs away from the microscope.

"Sherlock. John. I need you to look at this." Sherlock goes first. He looks into the eyes of the microscope with ease. I see his brow furrow in the way I like. Then he pales and like Molly backs away. No one says anything and I have no choice but to look at whatever's is in me.

Within the cluster of blood cells and the nerve samples I see little clusters of small pale circles. They throw themselves repeatedly at the nerve tissue in small armies. I wince as I can see the damage left in the nerve areas. Then the poison regroups and launches another attack. I stumble back.

"That's in my blood." I say. "That's what attacking my nerves." Sherlock comes and stands next to me, not making eye contact.

"It will spread. After all the anesthetic is out of your system it's going to hurt. I've never seen this before. There isn't an antidote. I don't know what to do."

Without warning Sherlock hugs me hard and doesn't let go. I would push him away but I don't think he'll ever do it again. Not in this lifetime, which just seems to have gotten shorter.


	15. Leaping, Flying, Screaming, Crying

In three more days I can't use my leg anymore. Both legs now are cut off from my brain. They hang limply over the side of the bed. I have crutches now. I also have a portable wheelchair that sits next to my bed. I feel so useless. I have no purpose anymore.

I didn't know how much I wanted to run, until I couldn't. It's funny how many things we take for granted sometimes.

The messages continue to come. Each is as playful and horrible as the last. I don't look at my phone anymore. There is no point. Each says what day it is (four today) and has some sort of reminder of what is going to happen.

I lift myself out of my bed with my arms, which are functional thank goodness. The wheelchair has taken some getting used to. I turn the wheels with my hands slowly, and open the door.

Molly is out getting groceries. Sherlock is sitting down on the couch. It's the first time I've seen him not looking into a microscope since we figured out I was poisoned. He has test tubes all over the flat, though he's trying to clean up so my wheelchair doesn't get stuck.

I start to wheel toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I refuse all of Sherlock's offers for help. When he starts to talk now I stop him.

"Just because my legs don't work doesn't mean I am incapable of making a cup of tea." I say. Sherlock shakes his head.

"Forget the tea. Tea is unimportant right now. I need to talk to you." His face seems more serious than usual.

"Okay." I wheel over to park next to the couch. "What do you need to talk about?" Sherlock looks at his feet for a moment. Then he looks up.

"You know how Moriarty shot himself that day at the Prince's?" I clench my hand at Moriarty's name. I can see every single punch, every whipping, all the false hope, and all the pain.

"Yes."

"He didn't" I am suddenly confused.

"Yes he did. He had his gun. It had two bullets missing. He shot himself twice." Sherlock shakes his head.

"I made it look like he did. I killed him." I should be surprised but it's nothing out of Sherlock's abilities.

"That's fine." I say.

"It's not fine!" His voice is suddenly loud. I flinch. Sherlock is usually in control, and now he's lost it. "I'm sorry." He says, his voice still full of steel but now.

"So, you shot him. So what?" I feel like I'm missing a puzzle piece that no one is willing to give me.

"I had my gun and he told me to pick my poison." He doesn't look directly at me now. "I either had to arrest him and have him escape again and cause havoc or I could shoot him and end it." Somehow, even though he has told me, I feel like I'm missing more.

"So you shot him. That's a perfectly legitimate decision." Sherlock lowers his shoulders and looks out the window for a moment.

"There was a catch." He says in a whisper. "A catch that I ignored." I look at him for a moment and realize that this is about the poison and me.

"What was it?" I say.

"He told me that I would need him alive in three weeks. I would need him for something important. He told me he would hurt someone and I would need his help and if I shot him dead then I would pay the price. I was arrogant and stupid and thought I would never need his help. I thought he could never hurt someone once he was dead. But it turns out he can. And he did. He's the only one who has the antidote John. I can't get it and save you because I was conceited." This time it's my turn to hug him, though something hurts deep within me. I know that it wasn't his fault, and I know that I forgave him before he even confessed, but something is burning inside of me, and burning my soul.

I can't go to sleep for a while. I don't sleep easy anymore anyway, but I don't go to sleep today until 4 in the morning. I don't sleep easy lately. The painkillers that Molly gives me are slowly ceasing to work, and Sherlock's confession keeps me up thinking. I wake up two hours later to a text on my phone. I check it this time. It feels important since Sherlock told me about the choice.

Blocked: Day 5. Day 5. 12 days since he made his decision. About a week until you make yours.

I make my own decision. I pick my own poison. I can't stop think about it. Then my phone beeps again.

Blocked: How are the painkillers working?

I stare at the message with wide eyes.

Blocked: Oh wait, They DON'T! Anymore…

I start to get up to call for Sherlock when another message appears. It's a poem of some sort.

Leaping, Flying

Screaming, crying

Laughing, Lying

John is dying

My entire torso is suddenly on fire. It's burning like I was put in a fire. I can't breath. I can't feel anything but searing pain. My eyes pick up a dull cry as I fall of my bed. Then I realize that the cry is my own.

Screaming, Crying

John is dying


	16. A Secret in The Bookshelf

Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. All I can hear.

The pain is gone in seconds, but leaves my chest on fire. I gasp for the air that I couldn't have. There is no sound, like a movie put on mute.

Molly runs into the room and gets down on one knee. She puts her hands on my shoulders and starts talking, but I can't hear what she's saying. She shakes me. I try to say something back. She keeps asking me something, always the same question. I want to hear it and answer her.

Then Sherlock is there. He looks like he just woke. His hair is all over the place and he's wearing his purple shirt, the one that he wears whenever he's lucky enough to sleep.

"-Happened." Suddenly all the sound is back. Molly is talking. Sherlock is now also on his knees.

"Molly. Sherlock." I gasp, to let them know that I'm okay. Molly is close to tears. I can tell that she was scared.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks. His brow is furrowed in concentration.

"Phone." I say, still out of breath. Sherlock looks at the bed, where my phone lies. He picks it up and scrolls through the messages. I see his face turn gray when he sees the poem.

Laughing Lying

John is dying

Molly has given me painkillers, but none of them work anymore. Sherlock figured out that now the poison has started to attack the painkillers. There is nothing I can do when the pain starts. It doesn't stop. I have an "episode" three more times during the day. I am sick of the worried looks that I get when I sit down. I am sick of being a patient.

After going to bed the light under my door doesn't go off like it usually does. It stays on. I try to go to sleep, but after tossing and turning for what seems like forever. I sit up in bed and check the clock. It reads 12:45, nearly one in the morning. Maybe they forgot to turn off the light.

I quietly get up and quietly walk to the door. I press my ear against the door. It is silent. They forgot to turn off the light.

I creak the door open and walk into the living room. Everything is quiet and peaceful. Molly went to do research in the lab overnight, so the couch is unoccupied.

The first things I notice are papers everywhere. Someone was trying to hide something. That's for sure. Either that or someone was looking for something. Even though the flat is a wreck, Sherlock never looses anything. He was trying to hide something.

I look on the desk. The same brown wrapping paper that is ripped up and scattered all over the floor is on the desk. Whatever Sherlock was hiding, it was wrapped. I follow the clear areas on the floor. Sherlock didn't take the care to rid him of the evidence. He under estimates my skills in tracking. Oh well. No matter.

I follow the clear areas to the bookshelf. Some of the books are stacked in various places, but I can't see anywhere he could've hid something. I look to see if the clear areas lead anywhere. They stop at the bookshelf.

I realize that I'm a good deal shorter than Sherlock. He would have put it on one of the higher shelves. That's it. It's almost obvious. You don't leave a knife in a place where a child can reach it. A knife.

I pull over a chair, making sure that it doesn't make any loud noises as I put it down in front of the shelf and stand on top of it. Here there are books that have obviously been taken off and replaced. I pull down the copy of London A to Z, smiling with the memories of the case it solved us. When I set it down I realize that there is something behind it.

As I pull it out I here someone coming down the stairs. I panic and run back into my room, leaving the chair where it is. I climb back into my bed and lay completely still. The lights go off in the living room after a couple off moments. I sigh. I hope that Sherlock didn't see me.

What I hold in my hands is a small cardboard box. Inside is a small syringe, full of a clear liquid. The syringe is marked with a skull. It's a suicidal injection. Was Sherlock trying to kill himself? I don't want to think about it. I took away the syringe. I need to talk him tomorrow. I will. I hide the syringe in my box of army photos. He won't get to it. Somehow, this comforts me. I fall asleep easily after that.

Blocked: Day 6. Day 6, the day of blood. Blood

Blood

Blood

Blood


	17. Blood and Accusation

When I wake up the sun is shining through my curtains. I know that I've woken up late. There is a horrible taste in my mouth that I recognize, but can't put my finger on what it is. I sit up, remembering last night. Something is bothering me, and it isn't what I found.

I look over the side of my bed at the wheelchair and it hits me. I hadn't used the wheelchair last night. I was walking and standing. I didn't even have my cane. My legs stopped working about 4 days ago and I stood on a chair and ran back to my room.

I try to move my leg again. It sits there and does nothing. I persist. It still does nothing. I knew it was to good to be true. I lift myself up out of my bed and into the wheelchair. Halfheartedly, I wheel my way out of my room.

Molly and Sherlock are already awake and having breakfast, or at least Molly's having breakfast and Sherlock is staring at the piece of toast on his plate.

"Morning John." Molly says. I can tell that she's tired. She must have been up all night at the hospital.

"Morning Molly." I reply. "Morning Sherlock." I say. He looks up for a moment then goes back to focusing on his toast. "How was the lab last night?" She looks up at me with a puzzled face.

"I was up all night looking at the poison. I've never seen anything so strange in my life. At 8 o'clock last night they start to form together and made almost an electron bridge for nerve signals to pass through. It was like they were being controlled." That's it. The poison made a bridge for nerve signals so I could get up last night.

"Chip." Sherlock says.

"What?" He looks up.

"A chip. It's obvious. Moriarty placed some sort of computer chip somewhere in your body. This chip is sending of organic signals to the poison on a regular basis. It controls exactly what they do and when. He obviously already wrote the program to go into effect if he didn't shut it down, so…" He stands up and shoves his toast away. "You're like his puppet. He could be killing you right now or making you able to walk. Let me ask you John if you were able to walk last night?" I open my mouth and try to say something, but nothing comes out.

"I-" Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"Never mind. I already know. Tell me where it is." Molly stands up and looks back and forth between us.

"What's going on?" She asks.

"I-" I try to start again but get cut off by Sherlock.

"Well," He's talking very fast in his singsong voice. "Last night I received a package from Moriarty. Why Moriarty? Well that's the only logical explanation for it. I'm not going to tell you what it is by the way because John can very well show it to you because last night after I hid it he got out of bed, walked over to the bookshelf, stood on a chair and ran."

"How-" Molly starts. She's cut off again.

"He's using you John." He says to me. "You got up because the light was on, but ended up with a tiny cardboard box. He wanted you to find it. Even if he's dead he's still important and he knew that he would send out the instructions for the poison cells last night and he knew that he only needed for you to walk to find it. Why? I don't know yet but you should goddamn give it back!" He storms off.

"What's going on?" Molly says, throwing her hands up in the air.

"I don't know." I say and wheel back to my bedroom, slamming the door. The strange taste is still in my mouth, so I go to brush my teeth. But something is wrong, terribly wrong. When I spit, the spit is red instead of white. It's blood. I start to feel sick.

Then there is pain, more than before. It's more intense than before and it lasts longer. Before I know what has happened, I can't feel anything and my vision is gone. I black out.


	18. Author's Note 3

Author's Note 3:

Ah. Here we are again. I am officially done with John's POV! The final 5 chapters will be in Sherlock's. I am glad that you are reading and possibly enjoying my first fanfic. Send me a message if you have a suggestion of what kind of fanfic I should write next. I'm thinking Harry Potter or Hunger Games.

Anyway, I'm sorry if you were confused in Chapter 14 when John is walking around. I was not ruining the continuity there. I knew where I was going with that plot point.

I'm really surprised with all of the followers I'm getting (more than 20 now!) I know that that sounds really lame like I'm getting excited over nothing but it really means a lot to me!

I hope to get in another chapter before the day is done because I have a lot of free time today!

Thanks again!


	19. A Will and Lost Hope

Sociopathic, adjective: of, relating to, or characterized by asocial or antisocial behavior or exhibiting antisocial personality disorder.

That's exactly what I feel like while I pound on John's door. Sociopathic. John always told me that I don't understand emotions. I don't. It's true. I try to make up for it, but he won't open the door.

"John?" I call again, knocking harder. I give up knocking and push the door open. He won't answer me. I am starting to get worried. On his bed is his phone. I pick it up and see the message. Day 6 is the day of blood. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "John?" I call again. I turn to the bathroom. I can see him lying on the floor next to his wheelchair.

"John!" I shout. "Molly get the hell over here!" He is barely breathing out of his nose. I fold my hands and push twice on his stomach. He gasps and opens his eyes. Molly comes into the room. John is coughing hard. Molly puts one hand behind his back and sits him up. I move my hand to do the same. I see a flash of red, and see that my hand is covered in blood. John is coughing up blood.

"Oh my god." Says Molly. "I'm calling the hospital." John shakes his head over and over.

"No." He says. "Desk. Look on desk." I stand up and go over to his desk. I see a packet of paper. I look at the words on the paper. I take a step back, not comprehending what they say. It's John's will.

John has stopped coughing, but his breath is raspy. I can feel his staring at me. John wrote a will. He thinks he's going to die. He's prepared to die.

"Sherlock," Molly says. "What is it?" She stays where she is but I can tell that she wants to stand up. I pick up the packet of paper and bring it over to her.

"Will." John rasps. "I wrote it the day I got…the message." I look up.

"What message John?" I say. I can feel my voice start to go lower like it does when I get angry.

"Phone." It's all he says. I walk back over to the bed where his phone lies. I slowly scroll through the messages until I get to a poem. A horrible poem. A poem that I want to permanently delete from my mind, but I know I never will.

Leaping, Flying

Screaming, Crying

Laughing, Lying

John is dying

I throw the phone into the wall. It leaves a small pathetic dent and bounces off the bed and onto the floor.

"You were supposed to tell me!" I yell. "You got a message like that and didn't tell me?" I am pacing around the room.

"Calm down Sherlock." Molly says.

"I won't goddamn calm down!" I shout. John stares at me with wide eyes.

"Sherlock…" He starts.

"No!" I turn back to look at him. He looks so vulnerable and weak. I remember how it used to be. "Don't you dare give up now John! We're going to find the chip. You're not going to need the will. You need to go to the hospital."

"First line of the will Sherlock." John says. Molly picks up the will from the floor and stares at it.

'What does it say?" I ask in a softer voice. Molly's voice is quivering.

"It says that if John is to die," She pauses and tries to compose herself. "He wants to die here at 221B." I stare at him. He averts his eyes.

"Fine." I spit. "But you have to go today. We need to find the chip before this gets any worse." Molly helps him back into the wheelchair and I know that we're getting him to the hospital.

Molly calls an ambulance since a taxi won't work and the police will be even worse. There is a crowd when we get there. Lestrade and his team are surrounding blocking the reporters from getting any photos. Everyone is silent once we get inside the ambulance. John has two more episodes just while inside.

The scan doesn't take long. John doesn't protest or say anything. He sits in his wheelchair behind us as we analyze the scans. I can feel him looking over my shoulder and trying to read it.

"Oh god." Molly breathes. "I found it." I look at where she's pointing. Then I realize that it's all over. There's no hope. I'm an idiot.

We can't take out the chip. I can't save John. I can't even save myself.


	20. Forget It

The chip painstakingly paced between one of John's vertebrae. He wouldn't have noticed because of the whipping. The chip is between two of the most important nerve folds at the base of the neck. Moriarty is lucky that he didn't kill John when he put it in. To take it out would either kill John or paralyze him from the neck down.

"What's wrong?" John whispered. I turned around and looked at him in the eye.

"There's no way it's coming out." I told him slowly, trying to hold composure. He looked down at his legs.

"I thought so."

That was two days ago. Today is the first day of the third week since he was rescued. It's Day 8. John can't even get out of his bed anymore. The flashes of pain have become longer and worse. He continues to cough and vomit blood. Molly and I take shifts watching him. I know that he won't last much longer. When he goes to sleep he wakes up screaming from nightmares. Molly tries to make sure that I don't spend too much time there. She thinks I'm going to crack. She's probably right.

The painkillers and medicine have stopped working completely. I keep John's phone. The stupid thing seems indestructible. I take the message now.

Blocked: Day 8. Forget it.

Forget it. I wonder what it means.

There is another thing bothering me. The syringe. I want to ask John about it, but Molly says that he might have disposed of it and that it'll make upset. It still bothers me. Why would Moriarty send me a syringe just for John to steal it? I didn't need it, yet I felt compelled to hide it. None of it makes sense.

I roll over on the bed and stare at the clock. Midnight. Molly still hasn't come up, but I know she needs to sleep. I pull on my blue robe and walk down the stairs.

I knock softly on the door. Molly comes to answer it. She has dark circles under her eyes.

"Sherlock," She says. "It's okay. I can handle it." I push past her.

"Get some sleep Molly. I'll be fine." I shut the door. The lights are off except for the lamp on his desk. John is lying in his bed. He isn't having a nightmare. Good.

I sit down in the chair. My laptop is sitting on the floor. I pick it up. It's on a news website. The first thing I see is a photo of John and I right before the day at St. Bart's. The article reads:

Sickness of The Doctor?

I shut the screen and put it away. I knew there would be news about the mystery surrounding John and I but I won't read it. It's all lies. People think I'm the one to blame. I'm not, but there's a voice in my head that says I am. I killed Moriarty. Moriarty has the cure.

I hear John stir in his bed. He's mumbling something. He starts to toss and turn. I put a hand on his shoulder. He screams and wakes up.

"Sh. John it's okay. I'm here." His eyes are everywhere, unable to focus. "John?" I say. I'm starting to get worried.

"What're you doing here?" He looks frightened.

"It's okay John. It's just a dream. You're okay now." He pushes my hand off his shoulder.

"Who're you?" I stare at him.

"What?" I pull back.

"Who're you? Where am I?" He tries to get away from me.

"John." My voice is breaking. "Don't you remember? It's Sherlock. You're in my bedroom at 221B Baker Street. I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm your friend. You're my only friend." John is shaking.

"Sherlock Holmes?" He says.

"Tell me you remember John." He screams in pain and clutches his chest. "John!" I shout. I hear Molly start to tear down the stairs. I can feel tears in my eyes. "Don't you remember me John? Please!" Molly runs in. John screams again out of pain. "Please John! I'm Sherlock Holmes." Molly is at my side now. She holds my shoulders. I am trembling.

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?" John says. His eyes are blank. He doesn't know who I am. He can't remember. Forget it.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes John!" I'm so close to tears but I won't let them come.

"Why does it hurt so much Sherlock Holmes?" He says. "Why does it hurt?" He passes out. I let go. I let the tears come. Molly holds my shoulders.

Forget it.


	21. Stress and Seizures

I don't sleep for the rest of the night. I lock myself in my room. I don't like other people to see me cry.

I flip through an album that John left in his room. There are newspaper clippings, printouts from his blog, and photos of us. Now he doesn't remember anything. He doesn't remember everything that we went through. He doesn't remember A Study in Pink. He doesn't remember Saint Bartholomew's. He doesn't remember Irene Adler. He doesn't remember Baskerville. I can't take it anymore. I throw the album across the room. I seem to throw everything these days.

My head is in my hands when Molly knocks on my door. "Go away." I say. "I don't want to see anyone." Molly knocks again.

"He's okay. He had some sort of amnesia. I don't know where it came from. He doesn't remember it. He wants to see you Sherlock." I take my head out of my hands.

"Does he know who I am?" I ask.

"Yes. He does. Please, Sherlock. It's almost 9 in the morning." I put on my robe again and open the door. Molly looks exhausted.

"You've been crying." She says.

"Not important." I say and pass her to get down the stairs. "Get some sleep Molly."

I am careful as I walk towards his room. When I knock I here him answer in a soft voice. "Come in."

I push open the door. John is propped up on the pillows in his bed. He is so pale and his face is gaunt. I am careful around him. "Good morning John." I say. He looks up and smiles.

"Good morning Sherlock." I come and sit down in the chair next to him. His smile fades.

"What's wrong?" He winces and I can tell by the way his hand starts to move towards his chest that it's burning again. I force a smile.

"Nothing." He looks skeptical.

"I'm not stupid Sherlock. What happened?" I avert my eyes. "Don't lie to me." He says.

"You woke up last night from a nightmare." I see his brow furrow.

"I don't remember."

"I know." I say. "You didn't then either." He looks up.

"What do you mean?" He sits forward. He can read me like no one else can. I try to look away again but I can't.

"You didn't know who I was. You were confused and you were in a lot pain and you didn't remember me at all." I hear him breathe in slowly.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I know." I cut him off. I look back. He looks sorry and hurt.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock." I try to compose myself again.

"It's fine. I'm fine." He sucks in his breath and holds it. His face is riddled with pain. "Are you okay?" He shakes his head.

"It hurts Sherlock." I grab his hand. I can feel myself starting to lose the mask of composure.

"You'll be okay." He opens his eyes. They are wet and I can tell that it's worse this time. "I'm right here." It takes a moment for his face to relax some. "Are you okay now?" He shuts his eyes again.

"It isn't all gone this time." He whispers. "It still hurts." I get up.

"I'll get Molly." He nods.

"But come back soon Sherlock." He says. "You keep leaving. If I'm going to die I want you to be here."

"Okay." I choke and get Molly. She wasn't asleep like I told her to be. She's looking at a microscope. When she looks up it takes one look and she gets up and goes down the stairs.

I have never felt so useless in my life. I sit on the bed again and work on getting my hand to stop trembling. I get it under control in a moment. Sociopath. That's what I am. A sociopath, someone who can't communicate with emotions to others. The pone beeps. I don't pick it up for a moment. I need to see what it says though.

Blocked: Day 9. Breathe John. Breathe.

At that same moment I hear Molly scream my name. "SHERLOCK!" She screams. I tear down the stairs and into John's room. He's choking. He can't breathe. Molly is trying her best but I can tell that she's freaking out.

"Molly." I say. "I hate to be rude but MOVE!" She gets up and I sit down. "I'm sorry John." I say. "This going to hurt." I punch him in the stomach. He exhales and then gasps for air. Though he is breathing like a fish out of water, he is breathing nonetheless.

I send Molly back home. She isn't sleeping and is getting sick herself. I can take care of John. She doesn't need to have a panic attack because of something I can do. She protests but John agrees that she needs to go home. She cries while she leaves.

"I'm going to miss John." She says as I hug her.

"I know." I say. "You'll get to see him soon." She shakes her head.

"Don't lie to me Sherlock." She waves and leaves the flat for the last time.


	22. Safe and Sound

It's the last few hours of Day 10. I lie half-asleep in the empty bathtub, as strange as that sounds. I can't sleep in my room anymore. John didn't want me asleep on the floor next to his bed, and with reason. I brought pillows and a blanket and put them in the bathtub. It's my new bed.

Day 9 was horrible. John's pain didn't stop. I could tell. No matter what I did I saw the signs that the burning didn't go away. He tried to sleep but I could tell that he couldn't. We're both exhausted. Day 10 is even worse.

Blocked: Day 10. Make your decision John.

I didn't tell John about it. I don't know what it means. I saw his eyes keep fleeting to the bedside table. When I tried to open it he shook his head.

"No." He had mumbled. "Don't open it." I respect his will. I didn't touch it.

I hear him sit up in his bed. The rustle in the covers is so familiar. "John?" I call out.

"So sorry." He whispers. "So sorry." I sit up just as I hear a gun fire.

"John!" I scream. The gun fires again. I am out of the bathtub. John is shaking uncontrollably in his bed. In one hand is a gun. There are two bullets in the wall. He couldn't have aimed with his hands shaking. I turn on the light. I can see he is crying.

"I can't…" He tries. "I can't…" He drops the gun and holds his head in his hands.

"John…" I whisper, sitting on his bed. "Don't-"

"I can't take it!" I am surprised when he screams. "I'm not going to hurt you anymore. I'm not going to hurt Molly anymore. I can't do it anymore!" I can tell that he's serious. It's his decision. It's been nearly three weeks. This is what Moriarty meant.

"John." I try again.

"Kill me Sherlock." He says, closing his eyes. "Bottom drawer. Army photos." I am about to say something else. It's his decision. He doesn't want to live anymore. He thinks his life isn't worth living. I get up, shaking and find the box of army photos. I open it. Inside is the syringe. I take it out.

"Are you-" He opens his eyes.

"I'm sure." It's my turn to cry. I sit down on the bed next to him. "I want it to end Sherlock. I'm going to die anyway. Please Sherlock."

"You'd have a couple of minutes to say goodbye." I say.

"Okay." He chokes. He pulls up the sleeve on his arm.

"I'll be lost without my blogger." I say. He smiles.

"You'll find your way back Sherlock. I promise." I push the syringe into his arm and release the poison. There's no going back now. He's really going to die now.

"Sherlock." He says. "I want you to promise me that you won't die like me. I don't want to be the cause."

"I promise." I choke.

"It seems that when you have all the time in the world you have nothing to say, but now that I have such a short amount of time, I want to say so many things." I can see his hands stop trembling and his eyes are unfocused again. "The first mystery we solved Sally told me not to stay with you or I'd get hurt. I don't regret it Sherlock. I would do it again if I had to. The years I had here were the best years of my life. I'm going to miss them."

"I'm going to miss you." I sob. "This isn't how it's supposed to end. We're supposed to solve mysteries. You're supposed to blog about it. I'm supposed to forget my pants." He laughs.

"Tell Molly it isn't her fault. Tell her that she was the best nurse I could have." I nod. "This isn't your fault Sherlock. It will never be your fault. I was never alone while you were here. Moriarty-" His breath comes in quickly and his forehead beads with sweat. "He said he would burn you heart and get me to hate you. Don't let him win."

"I won't." I say.

"You got to say goodbye last time. I didn't get to say what I wanted to. Now I get to. I'll miss you Sherlock, even in heaven." The rise and fall of his chest becomes slower and slower.

"Don't die now John." I whisper. "I'm not ready for you to die."

"Goodbye Sherlock." His eyes close slowly.

"Goodbye John." I watch my tears fall on his face and mix with his. Then he's gone. "I didn't want this." I say. "I didn't want you to die John." I know he can't hear me. "I want you to be safe. Safe and sound." I am left with only myself and an empty heart.


	23. Looking

The wind is a knife against my cheek as I walk towards the cemetery. No one recognizes Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock that once existed is gone. No one gives me a second glance as I walk across the freezing ground. I find it. I find the tree.

They kept my grave in the ground. Part of me died a long time ago. Next to it now is a new grave. There was no funeral for the person who lies beneath the ground. John H. Watson. I hadn't been to his grave since I disappeared after he died.

I put one hand on the tombstone. I can remember everything that I've blocked out for the past 4 years. I can't believe it's been that long. I lay down a rose, a white rose down in front. I won't tell you what the letter inside the envelope I also place on the ground says. I have to draw the line somewhere.

I stand there for what seems like an eternity. I see something in rustle behind the tree where I used to hide to watch John in the horrible year after I had faked my death.

"John?" I call out. There is no reply. I walk behind the tree, expecting to see him in a sweater and checking his phone for message. I see nothing. But I won't give up. I keep looking. I look for a long time.


End file.
